There
is an aura of doom that permeates The
Assassin, a film of haunting beauty that tells the story of haunted people.
"Story" might not be the right word to describe the experience that
the film imparts. This is less a narrative than it is a pageant.
Co-writer/director Hsiao-Hsien Hou's film is almost exclusively about creating
that mood of imminent disaster against the backdrop of China in the 8th century,
when provinces were gaining independence from the Imperial Court.

The
actual history comes at us fast in an opening bit of text (greatly expanded upon
in the subtitled English translation), but the personal histories of these
characters arrive in a much more relaxed manner—and sparingly. This is not to
say that the screenplay by Hou, Cheng Ah, T'ien-wen Chu, and Hai-Meng Hsieh
(based on the short story by Xing Pei) is unconcerned with plot and characters.
They certainly exist and are intertwined with those tales of history here,
offering a story of past hurts and broken familial bonds that have come home to
roost. It's simply that Hou's technique takes center stage, while everything
else stands on the sides of the stage or waits in the wings.

What
technique it is, too—a meticulously composed and hypnotically lit (Ping Bin
Lee provides the naturally illuminated cinematography) series of shots that tell
us as much about these characters as, if not more than, they have to say for
themselves. Hou begins in striking black-and-white, which gives way to the lush
colors of its title shot—a harvest orange sky reflected in a lake, with
silhouetted trees and a tower standing in front of a range of purple mountains.
Hou doesn't rush the shot. He knows its aesthetic impact, and he treats the rest
of the film with a similar patience.

Save
for one scene, the entire film is framed in the boxier, Academy ratio, although
in that one scene, Hou expands the width of the frame to show a character in a
peaceful state. Obviously, the difference draws our attention to what she's
doing and the story she's telling, making the activity and that story of
particular import to understanding something about another character. Also since
it's the only time the screen is that wide, that should say something about the
usual state of affairs here. The film's form—as it should be—is a key
component of its content.

Our
protagonist is Yinniang (Qi Shu), who, in that opening scene, kills an anonymous
man of power. Her moves are swift and precise—a quick jump and a seamless
slash to his neck stop the man dead in his tracks, until he falls from his
horse. Yinniang is killing on orders from Jiaxin (Fang-yi Sheu), who is a
princess by birth and a nun by calling. Yinniang is the princess-nun's
apprentice, and the trade is political assassination.

Yinniang's
second assignment takes her to the home of a local governor, and she stands
still, silent, and unblinking from the rafters above his receiving room.
Provided the perfect opportunity to strike as the governor sleeps with his son
in his arms, Yinniang pauses when the man instinctually protects his child. No
words are exchanged in the moment of decision, but it's clear that Yinniang is
no amoral killer.

As
punishment for her apprentice's failure, Jiaxin gives Yinniang a final
assignment to complete her training: She must kill her cousin Tian Ji'an (Chen
Chang), the ruler of her home province of Weibo. Ji'an is facing a crisis of his
own, as the leaders of two newly-formed provinces surrounding Weibo's borders
are currently feuding. Doing nothing could mean the downfall of the province
from one of the others, looking to extend its reach. Taking a side could result
in an attack from the forces of the Imperial Court.

The
geopolitical information is at once vital and irrelevant. The general idea that
Weibo, its rulers, and its unseen populace could fall through action or inaction
is key, but the specifics do not matter. The threat is enough.

The
characters and plot of the film possess a similar duality. We don't learn much
about the assassin and her target, save to hear that they were once betrothed to
be married, until political alliances became more fundamental to the province's
survival. We also learn that Yinniang was sent to the princess-nun—the twin
sister of Weibo's late, beloved princess who came from the Imperial Court—in
order to protect her from retaliation for a youthful misadventure. These overall
details are important. The specifics do not matter.

What we
see are internal and external conflicts without any means of a satisfactory
resolution. Yinniang, torn between honoring the woman who raised her and
remaining faithful to her family, must decide between a path of violence or
forgiveness. Either option, like the one Ji'an must but is hesitant to make,
could turn out poorly for everyone involved. There are fights here, but they are
intentionally anticlimactic—shot from a distance, suddenly interrupted, or, in
one instance, kept entirely off screen. No specifics are necessary, because
Yinniang shows herself to be the best combatant amongst all comers. She doesn't
need to resort to violence in order to defeat a foe. Surely there is wisdom in
that.

Hou's
primary aim seems to be these philosophical ruminations. He gives us the basics
and expects us to fill in the blanks (A magenta-robed assassin in a mask of
golden flames and a sorcerer in the third act are particularly enigmatic).
Perhaps, though, the most important key to deciphering The
Assassin comes with its first aesthetic shift. The black-and-white act of
killing becomes a multi-colored process of avoiding bloodshed. It's about
comprising one's duties without compromising one's decency.